


wind me tighter than a wire

by ephemeralsky



Series: maybe i'm defective, maybe i'm dumb [1]
Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Alternate Universe - Detectives, M/M, Pre-Slash, Smart-Mouthed Pretty Show Boys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-26
Updated: 2018-03-26
Packaged: 2019-04-08 11:25:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14104344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ephemeralsky/pseuds/ephemeralsky
Summary: The insufferable man with an incorrigible inclination for drama leans over the bar, his posture relaxed like a cat’s, and asks the woman, “What did you make him?”“Ginger highball.”“Hmm.” Turning towards Andrew, he says, “Now you have another ginger to appreciate.”Andrew keeps his face carefully blank, taking inventory of the man. His eyeliner makes the ridiculous color of his eyes stand out even more, but the auburn hair is just as conspicuous. Andrew isn’t even going to think about his outrageous costume or about his outrageous legs.“Gingers aren’t my type,” Andrew says, impassive.(or: Kevin and Andrew are detectives, and Neil is a show boy who knows A Lot of things)





	wind me tighter than a wire

**Author's Note:**

> For the anon on tumblr who gave me the "Ways You said 'I love you'" prompts 23: Through a song + 24: Without really meaning it for Neil/Andrew
> 
> Thank you for the prompt! This… is probably not what you wanted, but I couldn’t figure out other ways to make it work aside from this, and then I got carried away and incorporated [this amazing au ](http://requiemofkings.tumblr.com/post/171514561740/au-where-kevin-and-andrew-are-detective-buddies) by [ requiemofkings ](http://requiemofkings.tumblr.com/) \- thank you for letting me write a fic based on your au!! - and so here we are. 
> 
> CW: implied self-harm/suicide attempt, references to child trafficking, implied/mentions of violence
> 
> Title of fic is from Nothing But Thieves' "Sorry"

The strobe lights paint the night club in a throbbing mass of purple and blue, the dancing bodies pulsing in and out of the darkness with each flash of light. Techno music pounds in Andrew’s ears like a mallet as he shoulders his way across the dance floor towards the bar, sleek dark wood that curves along two adjacent walls, stocked from floor to ceiling with alcohol.

Even with his athletic build, Kevin struggles to keep up with Andrew’s exodus from the crowd. The air-conditioning does very little to stop beads of perspiration from forming along Andrew’s hairline. Trapped in a mass of dancing humans and suffocated by body heat, he is reminded of why he has stopped visiting these types of establishments. The long hours and unending pile of cases courtesy of his job only made the decision easier.

When they’re finally freed from the masses, they keep to the outskirts of the dancefloor and walk along the bar. Andrew flags down one of the bartenders, a petite woman with light brown hair, bright red lipstick, a mini black dress, and a placid expression.

“What can I get you?”

Before Kevin can open his mouth, Andrew says, “A ginger highball.”

“Got it.”

As the woman prepares the drink, Kevin hisses, “What are you doing?”

“Ordering a drink,” Andrew answers in a bored tone, leaning against the bar.

“We’re on duty!”

Andrew flicks his fingers up at Kevin as if to say _so?_

Kevin puffs out his chest, a sign that he is about to unleash a winded lecture on Andrew’s work ethics. Andrew cleaves this chance off with a calm, “Is that him?”

Kevin’s mouth clicks shut as he looks to where Andrew’s eyes are focused on: a stoop-shouldered man clad in all black, standing at the other end of the bar with a broody expression on his face. He looks like the grim reaper if the grim reaper was a lanky man with pale skin, jet-black hair, and knobbly hands that can whip up drinks at an efficient speed.

“No, that’s not him,” Kevin says, unexpectedly solemn. Andrew lifts an eyebrow at the hard line of Kevin’s lips. There’s a story there somewhere, but Andrew won’t make it easy for him by asking what it is.

The drink arrives as Andrew scans the club. It’s a snazzy two-storey establishment with tasteful decor and tight security; the bouncers at the entrance only let them in because Kevin had muttered a Japanese phrase, some sort of code that let them know that Kevin was on the inside. Until three days ago, Andrew didn’t even know that Kevin was on the inside. In a drunken stupor, Kevin had proposed they go to La Tanière to break through the dead-end in their most recent case.

“I know somebody there. He could - he could help us out,” he had slurred, slumped against the toilet bowl in Andrew’s bathroom.

Andrew had been mildly skeptical and mostly incensed, the former due to a couple of incidents where they had been misled by anonymous tip-offs and the latter due to the revelation that Kevin is still in contact with Moriyama people. He shouldn’t really care; their deal ended a while ago and he isn’t responsible for Kevin’s safety anymore.

At least, that’s how it’s supposed to be.

But Andrew had acknowledged that they were running in circles, stuck inside a quagmire of a maze, and they had brought the idea to Wymack, the captain of their precinct. His face had hardened, so much so that Andrew had pondered over the possibility of it being stuck that way, but in the end, he had granted them permission to go on with the plan.

With his gaze flitting over the faces on the dancefloor, Kevin says, “It shouldn’t be too hard to find him, since he’s -”

The music cuts off and a high-pitched squeal erupts from the microphone in the middle of the stage. Instinctively, all eyes travel to the stage on the opposite side of the club, Andrew’s included. A dark-haired woman in a long black dress has the mic, smiling broadly as the dancing ceases. Her voice, when she speaks, is low and calm like an untouched pond.

“Esteemed guests, I present you to tonight’s scheduled performance.”

With that brief introduction, the overhead lights dim. There’s a ripple of murmur, the sound loud without the music to drown them out. Andrew is taking a slow sip of his drink when a spotlight beams onto a figure at the center of the stage, their top hat obscuring their face. With a gloved finger to their smiling lips, they tip their head up, the scars on their cheeks made stark by the glaring spotlight. A hands-free microphone curves over their defined jaw.

“That’s him,” Kevin says, but Andrew barely hears him.

The man on stage shushes the audience, and like a hypnosis, silence sweeps over the club. The black leotard he’s wearing shows off his slim waist, with his fishnet stockings hugging the length of his legs. His sculpted calves, the shape accentuated even further by the blood-red stilettos on his feet, have Andrew clenching his jaw. The bowtie attached to a white collar around his thin neck matches the shoes in its bedazzling hue of scarlet, as does his circus master-styled jacket, but the most striking thing about the man is his icy blue eyes.

The surge of music is cued with the light dispersing over four other dancers in matching outfits, two on each of his sides. It’s a show tune that Andrew recognizes from a musical he saw in passing on television, and the words are sung by the man Andrew and Kevin have been looking for.  

Of course. Of course their information broker is the main star of the show.

It’s a spectacle of upbeat ragtime-inspired music and vibrant colors, the five entertainers dancing in time with the syncopated beats. Andrew doesn’t know which is more distracting - the sway of the man’s body that translates into pure lasciviousness or the silvery voice that matches the melody in pitch and smoothness.

In the grand finale, the man tosses his hat into the sea of people, his auburn hair a little damp with sweat, and propels his body into a back handspring. The music ends and the crowd cracks and overflows with uproarious cheers, the clamor filling the air in the club like an avalanche.

“I love you!” somebody shouts over the din of clapping hands and awed, frenzied cries.

Chest heaving as he catches his breath, the man looks across the room, meeting Andrew’s gaze, and returns the proclamation of love with a saccharine, “I love you, too.”

Kevin startles a little. “Did he just -”

Like an icy river down his spine, apprehension chews through Andrew’s body.

“Does he know you’re here,” he asks Kevin, eyes riveted to the man’s every move. He’s exiting the stage, disappearing into the train of bodies on the main floor. Andrew strains his eyes for a glimmer of amber hair but finds no trace of it.

Kevin shakes his head. “He doesn’t.”

Andrew grinds his teeth, tension cresting in his muscles. His instincts are telling him - _screaming_ at him - that this simple mission is more dangerous than he thought it would be.

“He does,” a voice says behind him. Andrew’s attention snaps towards the female bartender, who has her palm propped under her chin as she stares at the two of them and blows a pink bubble of gum. The underside of her wrist is littered with a crosshatch of scars. Andrew takes a deep, slow breath at the sight of them.

“No need to have such a scary expression on your face,” she continues around her chewing gum. “Not like I put anything in your drink.”

Kevin’s hand hovers near the gun at his hip. Andrew himself has his fingers hooked into his armbands, the hilt of his knife a grounding touch.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” she drawls.

“What do you mean ‘he does’?” Kevin demands.

“It means the person you’re looking for knows you’re looking for him.”

Like paper clips to a magnet, they all turn towards the silvery voice.

The show boy, in all of his post-performance glory, is sauntering towards the bar, stilettos clicking against the smooth floor. He’s not looking at any of them, calling out, “Jean,” as he flops onto an empty barstool.

The other bartender - the handsome version of the grim reaper, apparently named Jean - approaches him.

“Find my hat for me?” the redhead asks hopefully, eyes wide.

“Maybe don’t hurl it at our guests next time,” Jean suggests, crossing his arms over his chest.

“It’s more dramatic that way, though.”

“And we all know how incorrigible his inclination for drama is,” the female bartender adds.

Jean sighs. “You are insufferable, _mon chaton_.”

“And you’re the best, _mon coeur_.”

Jean’s eyes flicker towards Kevin, a hint of bitterness flashing through them, before he trots away, probably off to retrieve the top hat. The insufferable man with an incorrigible inclination for drama leans over the bar, his posture relaxed like a cat’s, and asks the woman, “What did you make him?”

“Ginger highball.”

“Hmm.” Turning towards Andrew, he says, “Now you have another ginger to appreciate.”

Andrew keeps his face carefully blank, taking inventory of the man. His eyeliner makes the ridiculous color of his eyes stand out even more, but the auburn hair is just as conspicuous. Andrew isn’t even going to think about his outrageous costume or about his outrageous legs.

“Gingers aren’t my type,” Andrew says, impassive.

The man shrugs. “Not everybody has good taste, I guess.” His eyes travel to Andrew’s hands. “Do you actually have sheaths built into those or are you just trying to give yourself an early death?”

Andrew feels that he is caught unawares, fingers choking around the end of his armband. He straightens them, drops his hand to his side, keeps the surprise off his face. “Yes,” is all he says.

“Nathaniel,” Kevin jumps in, “we’re here for -”

“That’s not my name,” not-Nathaniel interrupts, his voice cutting like a blade. “And I don’t want to talk to you.”

As Kevin gasps sharply, offended, one of the servers approaches them. “Neil, you’re needed upstairs.”

“Needed or wanted?” not-Nathaniel-but-Neil muses. To the female bartender, he says, “See you later, Janie.”

“Bye, Neil. You were great tonight.”

Neil brushes the compliment off with a flick of his hand and slinks towards the stairs without so much as a glance towards Andrew and Kevin. Janie tinkles her fingers in goodbye at them when they follow Neil up to the second floor, her bubblegum popping over her red lips.

It’s the VIP section, judging from the more serene atmosphere and the patrons’ gilded appearance. Many of them offer glib grins and opulent praises at Neil as he passes by, and he accepts them all with a coy smile and a bat of his eyelashes. If Andrew ventures near the balcony, he would have a perfect view of the stage.  

A stocky, middle-aged man in an expensive wool suit jacket is seated at a circular booth, secluded from everybody else, and he welcomes Neil with a wide smile. He clasps Neil’s right hand and brings it to his lips for a kiss.

“Neil,” he says, keeping a hold of Neil’s hand, “you’ve outdone yourself tonight.”

A honeyed smile spreads over Neil’s lips, the allure of ripe fruit with all manner of rot on the inside, his index finger trailing over the man’s receding hairline, down to the side of his face. The glint of hungry desire in the man’s black eyes has Andrew’s stomach twisting, and the false, convincing affection that Neil is showing does nothing to soothe the convulsion.

“You’re too kind,” Neil says, acting out a script of kitsch and charm impeccably.

“I’m just telling the truth. Your performances have never failed to amaze me.” The man pats the space next to him on the cushions. “Come sit with me. Humor this old man a little, won’t you?”

“I’m on the clock, remember?”

“Can’t you spare a few minutes?”

“I’m afraid not.”

The man sighs, relenting. “Such a hard-working boy.” With another kiss to Neil’s knuckles, he bids Neil goodbye.

“I’ll see you next time, Earl,” Neil promises, all cloying sweetness.

Andrew and Kevin have been keeping themselves at a distance behind Neil, and when he begins his descent from the second floor, they follow. Kevin appears harried, while Andrew keeps up at a more sedate pace.

“Natha - Neil,” Kevin begins, “we need to talk.”

A server offers Neil a bottle of water when they return to the main floor. “Thanks,” Neil says with a small smile. The server accepts this with a nod and a wary glance towards the two men lurking behind Neil.

“Neil -” Kevin tries again.

“Oh, I need to talk to my boss. Almost forgot.” Neil whirls around, heading in the direction of the bar, then past it. Going through a door that says ‘Employees Only’ brings them to a cloistered hallway with a few more doors. Neil goes into the one furthest down the corridor while Kevin hesitates outside the door, Andrew leaning against the opposite wall.

“Neil.” A woman - the one who gave the succinct pre-performance announcement on stage - is seated behind an office desk, and she stands when Neil enters. “How did it go?”

“The show? Quite well, if I do say so myself.”

“And I’m guessing that the other matter isn’t resolved yet?” Her eyes slide over Neil’s shoulder, where Kevin and Andrew are visible.

“I didn’t know it was a ‘matter’. People try to find me all the time.”

She returns her gaze to Neil. “Not cops, though.”  

Neil gives a careless shrug.

“You want to use the office? You’re free to use it, you know. It’s yours, too.”

Neil declines the offer with a wave of his hand. “I’ll be in the dressing room - I need to change. I just came in to let you know that they’re still here.”

The woman hums. “Well, just don’t be reckless.”

With a laugh, Neil says, “When am I ever?”

He leaves the office and bypasses a door with a ‘Break Room’ sign for the one with a ‘Dressing Room’ sign just as a gaggle of women are exiting the room. Neil’s backup dancers.

“Neil!” one of them squeals. “There you are. We’re about to head out to McDonald’s. Angie here is craving for some chicken nuggets.”

“So are you,” somebody else - presumably Angie - says. “Come join us, Neil. Let’s stuff our faces.”

“Sorry, I can’t.” Neil flashes them a half-smile. “You guys have fun, though.”

The girls shift their attention to Kevin and Andrew, giving them the stink-eye. Andrew is starting to notice a pattern here.

“Do you need us to talk to Izzy?” a different woman offers.

“I just talked to her, so it’s fine.”

“Okay,” Angie says slowly, like she’s waiting for Neil to change his mind. “We’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Yup. Good night, guys.”

When the women leave, Neil strides into the empty dressing room, the air swelling with the scent of perfume. He kicks off his shoes, letting them skitter under a clothes rack, and peels off his gloves with his teeth.

Kevin, rebuffed too many times in the span of half an hour, is sporting a displeased expression, eyebrows furrowed over his nose, but the curl of his fists indicates that he doesn’t know what to do to mend the situation. He keeps on tailing Neil anyway, but starts appearing a little bothered by the fact that he is in what is, at first sight, a women’s changing room, corsets and garter belts spilling out of drawers, gaudy jackets and extravagant dresses hanging from the racks, and colorful tights and sequined camisoles flung over a partition.

He opens his mouth and closes it again when Neil disappears behind the partition. Opposite a row of vanity mirrors is a couch, and Andrew settles himself on it.

Neil reappears in a hoodie that falls to his thighs, and Kevin musters the will to open his mouth once more.

“As I was saying -”

Hitching his foot up on a chair and bending forward, Neil unrolls his stocking, bunching it into a ball and tossing it onto the floor, and repeats it with his other leg. Andrew stares. Kevin persists.

“We need to talk. It’s about something really important.”

“That’s weird,” Neil says, rummaging around a duffel bag on the chair beside him, “I thought I heard somebody say something. Must be my imagination.”

Kevin’s nostrils flare, his eyes twitching. Andrew is, admittedly, amused.

Neil extricates a pair of black jeans before vanishing behind the partition again to slip it on. Kevin uses the time to stare at the ceiling and inhale deeply. Andrew checks the time on his phone, wonders how much longer it would take before Kevin snaps.

When he has finished changing, Neil sits on the chair he used to prop his legs and starts cleaning makeup off his face. The lacerations and burn scars on his cheeks remain as prominent; the point of the makeup wasn’t to conceal the disfigured skin.

Peevishly, Kevin stabs his forefinger at Andrew and nudges his chin towards Neil in an unsubtle gesture to demand that Andrew speak to Neil on their behalf.

In response, Andrew takes out a pack of cigarette, shakes a stick out, and lights it up.

“For fuck’s sake,” Kevin says under his breath.

“Hey,” Neil says, looking at Andrew in the mirror, “no smoking inside.”

Andrew meets his gaze, taking a puff from his cigarette. “Let’s go outside, then.”

“ _You_ go outside.” Neil throws away the wipes he used to clean his face and tugs on a pair of worn-out combat boots.

Releasing a stream of smoke through his mouth, Andrew says, “Albert Orlov.”

Neil’s fingers still from where they’re tying his shoelaces before resuming not a second later. Other than that, Andrew doesn’t get a bigger reaction.

“Businessman by day, human trafficker by night,” Andrew continues in a monotone. “He brings in pregnant women from other countries, promises them green cards in exchange for their babies.”

“How fascinating,” Neil comments, raking a hand through his hair in an attempt to tame it.

“He kills them after the babies are born and immediately auctions the infants off to desperate couples with a few million dollars to spare. He is careful, never leaves any trail behind or witnesses alive.”

“Mm-hm,” Neil says, pumping some pink lotion onto his palm and slathering it over his hands.

“Kevin here believes that you might know something that could help us apprehend him.”

Andrew takes a drag of his cigarette and tips his head back to blow the smoke upwards, daring the smoke detector to blare out an alarm.

Neil takes a deep breath through his mouth and exhales it quietly. He walks over to the couch, watching Andrew watch him. When he is close enough, he snatches the cigarette from Andrew’s unresisting fingers. His hands smell like strawberries.

Neil stubs the stick out on the portable ashtray he fished out of his hoodie pocket and tosses it into a nearby wastebasket without tearing his eyes away from Andrew’s.

“Leave,” he commands.

“Kevin,” Andrew says, holding Neil’s gaze, “get out.”

“Wha - I am not _leaving_ ,” Kevin protests, vehement.

“I won’t repeat myself,” Andrew says.

Neither of them look at Kevin’s hemming and hawing and eventual decision to storm out of the room. When the sound of his footsteps recede, Neil says, “I’m not giving anything away for free, you know.”

“I did not expect you to.”

“What were you planning on giving me?”

“What do you want?” Andrew returns. “Name it and it is yours.”

Neil scoffs. “Yeah, right. I’m sure you and Kevin will see through the bargain.”

Andrew tilts his head to the side a little. “What is your issue with Kevin?”

“What _isn’t_ my issue with Kevin? His face tattoo, for one, is stupid. Don’t even get me started on his excessive height.”

Andrew can commiserate, but that isn’t the point. “And the bigger issue?”

Neil’s entire face and body become completely devoid of emotion or movement; a porcelain doll. He changes personas like people change clothes, and Andrew finds himself wanting to know what the real him is actually like. “He broke a promise.”

Andrew is quiet for a long moment. “Seems that it is part of his character trait.”

“You and him had a deal or something? What was it about?”

“I will tell you mine if you tell me yours.”

Neil rolls his eyes, his blank mask crumbling away. “I don’t have to tell you anything. I already know what you promised him.”

Andrew feels the twitch of his eyebrow. “Were you testing me?”

“Maybe.” Neil shrugs. “So what, he doesn’t fulfill his part of the deal, but you’re still following him around like a guard dog? Seems a little unfair to me.”

Andrew won’t even ask how Neil knows their deal. It should attest to his reputation at least, that he supposedly has eyes and ears everywhere. But having a stranger know the details of his deals or any other facet of his life still has his skin crawling.

“The world is an unfair place,” Andrew says, matter-of-fact.

“There’s no arguing that,” Neil agrees. He’s turning away, interest fizzling out, and Andrew stands and catches him by the arm. Taken aback by his own impulsivity, he loosens his grip, but doesn’t let go.

“I keep my promises.”

Neil’s eyes burn like the bluest part of a flame.

Oh, Andrew thinks, there it is.

“Do you, now?” Neil challenges. “If you would also like to keep your hand, you better let go of me. It’s a rule here that anybody can look but nobody can touch.”

Andrew lets go like he’s been stung, and Neil squares his shoulders.

“Any other rule I should be aware of?”

“We don’t react kindly to pigs.” With a mocking incline of his head, Neil adds, “Maybe don’t let Kevin come here dressed like a private eye from a shitty film noir next time.”

A muscle in Andrew’s cheek leaps, but he squashes the spark of amusement just like he squashes any other emotions.

“How did you know we were here so quickly?”

Neil points to the side of his face. An earpiece.

“These things aren’t just for giving me stage cues.”

Andrew’s eyes sweep over Neil’s figure in cool appraisal. “And you would know all about being a multi-purpose tool.”

Neil smiles, close-lipped and frosty. “What can I say? I’m a Jack of all trades.”

“Master of none.”

“Better than master of one,” Neil retorts smoothly.

They stare at each other for a while longer, neither willing to back down. Andrew notices the light smattering of freckles over the bridge of Neil’s elegant nose, and he averts his gaze.

Satisfied, Neil takes a step back to create a pocket of distance between them. Hands crammed in his pocket and chin jutted, he says, “This is a neutral place. We don’t want your kind here.”

“‘Neutral’,” Andrew repeats, derision tracing the word. “Is that what you tell the mob bosses and agencies who buy information from you?”

“Under this roof, they are my clients, guests of the club. Nothing more, nothing less. They know better than to come here with their guns.”

“And where does your conscience lie?” Andrew presses. “Do you sell data even to those who would use it for self-serving purposes?”

Neil huffs out a dry laugh. “Where does my conscience lie, he asks, like he has one of his own.”

Andrew doesn’t correct him, because it’s true.

“And let’s not pretend that you’re not here for the same purposes. Everybody has their own agenda and priorities, including you and your squad down at the thirteenth precinct,” Neil continues, with his knife of a smile.

“So you would let a criminal escape if it means maintaining your pretense of neutrality,” Andrew says, pressing along the edges of Neil’s character, trying to find an unstitched seam.

“It’s not my fault you can’t do your job.”

“And how does it feel to let all those women die?”

Neil’s eyes are set ablaze again, his lips thinned. Andrew can see the strain in his shoulders, the amount of effort it takes for him to curb his temper from flaring out.

“You really must be desperate,” he says snidely.

Andrew doesn’t say anything, keeps his face stony as he watches Neil turn away. It gives him a terrific view of Neil’s profile, the dip of his cheekbone, the knot of scars, the stubborn set of his lips, his ticking jaw.

“There’s a doctor. He performs all the medical checkups and delivers the babies. Word is that Orlov will dispose of him soon because of a mistake with the last woman.” Neil’s silvery voice is more subdued, his expression contained, eyes a smoke screen. “If you could provide him immunity - protection from Orlov, then he might be willing to testify.”

Andrew listens, but he’s channeling more attention towards detecting any shift in Neil’s expression. He finds none.

Like he could feel the weight of Andrew’s probing gaze, Neil snaps his eyes towards Andrew again. He spends a long moment looking before turning fully away.

“Now get out,” he says, a finality to his tone.

Andrew doesn’t move. “And your payment?”

With his back to Andrew, Neil gives a dismissive flick of his fingers.

“Just make sure Kevin doesn’t give himself alcohol poisoning.”

At the doorway, Andrew snatches a glimpse of Neil’s face from the vanity mirror. He sees his glazed over eyes, like he’s a million miles away, a star out of orbit.

Oh, Andrew thinks, this is it too.

*

A cold day in April finds Andrew back at La Tanière, a little over a month after his first visit. This time he is alone, ambling across the deserted dance floor and around the empty tables.

Eyes trained on the dismantled stage, he leans against the bar.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees a figure approach him. Not the one he’s looking for.

“We’re not open,” Jean tells him.

“The doors were unlocked,” Andrew says, nonchalant.

“I’m sure they were,” Jean says, unconvinced. “What are you doing here?”

“None of your business.”

“On the contrary, it _is_ my business. I work here, and you are an outsider.”

Andrew ignores him. Jean sighs, runs a hand through his hair, mutters something in French.

“He is on the roof. Use the fire escape stairs outside.”  

Andrew doesn’t look down as he climbs up each rung, his heart beating wildly as the distance between him and the ground increases. It’s better this way, he thinks distantly. He wouldn’t feel anything otherwise.

The chill bites into the skin on Andrew’s face, and already he wants to duck back inside. Neil is perched on the ledge, listening to his iPod and quietly singing along. In the daylight, his hair is a scorching red, a warning sign, a flaming sky at sunset.  

When Andrew stands at the edge, surveying the asphalt down below, Neil says, “Have a death wish?”

Vertigo has Andrew’s vision swimming a little, his pulse accelerating. Closing his eyes, he takes a step back.

“I could ask you the same.”

Neil stays silent, kicking his feet against the side of the building. He doesn’t say anything until Andrew sits beside him with his legs crossed.

“Any other case you need help with? Are you trying to catch a drug dealer this time?”

Unimpressed, Andrew stares at Neil. Unconcerned, Neil stares at the rooftop of the building across the street.

“The case I currently have in my hands is more complicated than busting a drug ring, unfortunately.”

This gets him a sidelong look and a pensive tilt of the head.

“Oh? Tell me more about this case that’s troubling you.”

“You might know more about it than I do. You are a data broker, after all.”

Humming in thought, Neil plucks his earphones off, winding the cord around his iPod. “If I give you the information you want, what will I get in return?”

Neil shifts, turning towards Andrew, his blue eyes intent as he waits for Andrew’s answer.

“Don’t ask questions you already know the answer to.”

An eternity passes before Neil responds.

“I’ll consider it,” he says, “if you come and see my performance next weekend.”

Andrew raises an eyebrow.

“We’re doing something with more,” Neil, with a serious expression, lifts a hand and wiggles his fingers, “glitter.”

“Glitter,” Andrew echoes, flat. Then he tips his head to the side in mock contemplation. “Will you be making a declaration of love at the end of this show, as well?”

“You’ll have to come and see, won’t you?” The corner of Neil’s lips curl around a small smile, his eyes bright.

Pulse accelerating, Andrew thinks, oh.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> This is really different from the stuff I usually write and I feel completely out of my element, so please let me know what you think!
> 
> my [tumblr ](http://nakasomethingkun.tumblr.com)


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